Hélène listened to the history with great interest, but she felt new misgivings. Clearly Fallsworth was not a home. It was a national treasure that required the full attention, love, and dedication of each duke and duchess.
'I've never seen Nigel look so happy,' the Duke said. 'She's a fine young lady.' He lowered the newspaper he was reading. It was the royal edition of the Times, which, like the edition delivered to Buckingham Palace, was specially printed on rag paper.
The Duchess got to her feet and walked over to one of the windows. She held aside the heavy curtains. For a long time she stared out at the two people walking hand in hand toward the house. Then she turned around. Her eyes were veiled. 'Yes,' she said slowly. 'She's a rather. . .remarkable young woman.'
Dinner was held in the Private Dining Room. By now Hélène had been exposed to enough of Fallsworth not to be overly impressed by this room. The walls were paneled in white and the moldings were gilded. The heavy red curtains were velvet, the marble fireplace seven feet tall. There were antique Chinese screens and large paintings by Rubens. The stemware was Waterford, the cutlery heavy Georgian silver, the candelabra gold, the prominent centerpieces on the polished Georgian table two antique Ascot gold cups won by Somerset horses in the nineteenth century.
Hélène was glad when dinner was finally over. They retired to a salon for coffee, and after a suitable amount of time she and Nigel went for another walk. It was dark out, and she breathed deeply. The air was clean, rich country air, alive with the noise of the crickets and the humming insects of the night. When they came to a wrought-iron pavilion, they sat down on the stone garden bench inside it. For a while, they were both silent.
'You're not comfortable here,' Nigel said finally.
Hélène pursed her lips thoughtfully as she looked across the lawn to the multitude of yellow windows. 'It's not you, Nigel. It's Fallsworth. It's like. . .' She sighed. '. . .a museum.'
'I agree with you.'
'You do?' She looked at him in surprise. His face was dark, but she could feel the warmth of his eyes.
He nodded. 'I wasn't planning for us to live here.' He sought her hand and squeezed it. 'I was thinking we'd get a house of our own in London. A place we both feel at home in. I've lived my entire life in museums. What I want now,' he said emphatically, 'is a home.'
She smiled in relief. 'You don't know how happy that makes me.'
He hugged her and smiled. His teeth gleamed faintly from the lights in the distant house. 'Darling, I want to marry you, not a curator.'
She laughed. 'I don't want a big house,' she warned him. 'I want some¬thing small and manageable—'
'Without servants crawling all over it—'
'And airy and modern. I mean, we're in the 1960s. I don't want to have to live like we're part of the last few centuries—'
'Indeed not. But it must be cozy—'
'Yes! With a nice garden—'
'Where we can raise our children.'
She froze. Slowly she turned and stared numbly at the huge house—the house that demanded a continuous dynasty. A dynasty which her body could not provide.
She slipped her hand from his. 'No, Nigel,' she said flatly.
'What is it?' he asked. 'I mean. . .did I say something wrong?'
Hélène closed her eyes. A fierce pain burned inside her. Her voice was a whisper. 'Nigel, I don't know why I never told you. It's just that it didn't seem important.' She gave a low laugh. 'I was a fool. I thought it was us that mattered.'
His voice was worried. 'Of course it's us that matters. Darling, what on earth are you talking about?'
'Children.'
'What about children?'
'I can never have any.'
'I'm sorry, darling. I didn't know.' He drew her toward him and held her in silence. Finally he spoke. 'It doesn't matter,' he said gently. 'If we want children, we can adopt some. A whole brood, if you like.'
'It's not right,' she said heatedly, extricating herself from his arms. 'Your family's endured for centuries. If you don't have children, you'll be the end of the line.'
'And you think that's so important? Doesn't our love count for anything?'
'It counts,' she said frowning. 'I just don't think it would be fair! Not to your parents, not to your ancestors—'
'Why are you worried about my ancestors and my family?'
'Perhaps because the war claimed most of mine,' she said quietly. 'Maybe that's how I know having a family is so important. Why else would you work so hard to build and achieve, if it's not going to endure beyond your own lifetime?'
'And you?' he asked gently. 'Why do you push yourself so hard if you can't leave your empire to anyone?'
A note of pride crept into her voice. 'There is someone I can leave it to, Nigel. My niece. She's like my own daughter.'
'And what's wrong if she's left Fallsworth also?'
Her voice was shaky. 'Do you mean that, Nigel?'
'Of course I mean that, darling. If I can't have you. . .' His voice was filled with pain. 'Then what's the point of going on living?'
She knew when he kissed her that he meant every word. And she had never known such happiness to exist.
It was late at night and Hélène stood at the window of her bedroom. She had switched the lights off, and the night outside was black as only a night in the country could be. She was filled with a sense of well-being. Ever since coming to Fallsworth, she had dreaded that something unexpected would tear to shreds what she and Nigel shared. Now she felt certain that that would not happen.
There was a discreet knock on the door. Nigel was coming to share her bed! She tried to keep the excitement out of her voice as she said, 'Just a moment!'
Quickly she switched on one of the silk-shaded lamps, hurried over to the bed, and picked up her peignoir. She slipped into it and ran a hand through her hair. Joyfully she hurried to the door and swiftly pulled it open.
Standing in front of her was the Duchess of Farquharshire. Hélène's smile froze.
'I'm sorry to bother you, my dear,' the Duchess said. She made an embarrassed gesture with her slender fingers. 'May I come in? I was wondering if we might have a little talk.'
Hélène stepped aside. 'Please. . .come in.'
The Duchess stepped inside and Hélène closed the door.
8
When Nigel awoke he flung aside the covers, jumped out of bed, and went over to the windows. He opened the holland blinds. The sunlight was already bright on the outside of the window frames.
Impulsively he flung the windows wide, letting the sunshine and chilly morning air wash over his bedroom in the East Wing. For once he was oblivious of the rule of shutting out the daylight from the valuables of Falls- worth. He wanted to revel in the sunshine. To let its life-giving brightness soak into his skin. Ever since the day before yesterday, when Hélène's eyes had shone as she had cried, 'Yes! Oh, Nigel, yes!' he had been filled with the warm, satisfied glow of love. What he and Hélène shared was a treasure that surpassed anything at Fallsworth.
As Nigel was opening the windows in his bedroom, Hélène was staring out of another window. Twenty thousand feet above England, the BOAC Comet dipped its silver port wing and she could see the English coast far below. The distant breakers looked like a smooth line of motionless white along the beaches. Then the coastline slipped out of sight and all she could see was an uneven, monotonous gray. Once again she was flying over the English Channel.
She turned her face away as the morning sun glared into her eyes. There was a numbness in her body that made it feel heavy and lifeless.
'Would you like a drink, miss?' a voice asked.
Hélène looked up at the stewardess bending solicitously toward her. She shook her head and wearily turned away again. 'No, thank you,' she murmured. She tilted her head sideways to avoid the sun. She looked as if she was staring out at the bank of clouds they had headed into, but what she was seeing was her bedroom at Fallsworth and the Duchess of Farquharshire standing in front of he
r. She could see herself, too. Staring at the imperious woman with a sudden fear. 'Please,' she had said, 'come in.'
The Duchess inclined her head and entered. Her aristocratic eyes were veiled and heavily lidded.
Hélène closed the door. 'Won't you sit down?'
The Duchess sat regally on one of the petit-point-upholstered chairs. With a feeling of dread, Hélène slowly took the seat opposite her. 'What can I do for you?' she asked hesitantly. But she needn't have asked. Her intuition told her why the Duchess had come.
The Duchess looked at her for a lingering moment. Then she sighed and folded her smooth hands in her lap. For a moment she looked down at them and then back up at Hélène. 'My son,' she said carefully in her cultured voice, 'has expressed the desire to marry you.'
'Yes,' Hélène said in a tight voice, 'we love one another.'
The Duchess smiled thinly. 'That is an admirable sentiment. I'm sure you love him very much.' She made an agitated gesture with her hands. 'We Somersets are an old family. I'm sure you realize that.'
Hélène didn't answer. She nodded cautiously and waited for the Duchess to continue.
Victoria Hollingsworth Somerset, the fifteenth Duchess of Farquharshire, had been named after a queen and born of an earl. From childhood she had been groomed to make a good marriage. She had not married the Duke as much for love as for the fact that his title was better than her own. That was reason enough for matrimony. One didn't go in search of love. That was for the lower classes. Although love had not been an integral part of her own marriage in the beginning, she was an excellent chatelaine for Fallsworth. Indeed, she now shared a sincere affection with the old Duke. She also genuinely liked Hélène Junot. She respected anyone who worked hard and achieved so much, and she did not like what she had to do now. But she was the guardian of Fallsworth and she knew her responsibilities. The Somerset name had to be guarded as jealously as any of the treasures in the great house. It had to be kept within the narrow confines of the aristocracy as it had been for centuries. Not once had the Somerset strain of the blood royal ever been diluted by a commoner. It was up to the Duchess to see that it did not happen now.
The Duchess inclined her head thoughtfully. 'Tell me, my dear. Has my son discussed his future with you at all?'
Hélène kept her face impassive. His future. Not their future. The implication was clear. 'I'm not quite sure what you're trying to get at.'
The Duchess sighed. This was difficult enough without having to do battle. 'Well, let me put it this way. My son has political ambitions.'
'Yes,' Hélène said carefully, fearing a trap somewhere.
'And I'm sure you realize that for a future duke, the correct wife is one of the most important assets in his life.'
Hélène smelled the trap and adroitly sidestepped it. 'Every man needs a woman he loves,' she said. 'A stable marriage is important under any circumstance.'
'And would your marrying him be a sign of stability?'
Hélène frowned. 'I'm not sure I understand.'
'Then let me try to explain. Nigel's social position is secure.' The Duchess paused. 'At least for the time being. But, my dear. . .a wife like you?'
'You don't like the fact that I'm a businesswoman?' Hélène asked.
'It isn't that I don't like it,' the Duchess said smoothly. 'It's the public. The average Englishman, I'm afraid, is rather ordinary and set in his ways. A man running for election who has a wife who runs her own business . . . well, the people can't be expected to accept that. It's so. . .common.' She rolled the word on her tongue as if it were something dirty. 'Not that I personally have anything against it, you understand. But the public looks up to us. They expect us to be. . .noble.'
Hélène's intuition had borne her out. 'You don't want me to marry Nigel,' she said flatly.
The Duchess smiled sadly. 'I want what's best for him,' she said gently.
'And you think you know what that is?'
For a moment the Duchess did not speak. 'I know what's best for the family.'
Hélène sat there white-faced and quiet. So her worst fears had turned into stark reality. She wouldn't be welcome in the Somerset fold. She was a commoner, a foreigner. Her eyes fell to her hand. The Somerset Sun seemed to wink mockingly at her.
After a while the Duchess spoke again. 'Don't you want what's best for my son? If you love him—'
'I do love him!' Hélène said stubbornly.
There was another silence and the two women's eyes met. Each one sized up the other. Finally the Duchess spoke again. 'Don't you want Nigel to have the future that is his birthright?' she asked softly.
Hélène didn't reply.
The Duchess looked down at her lap. 'Everything will have been for nothing,' she said. 'Everything will be over before it even begins.'
Hélène leaned forward. 'Nigel will have a future!' she said vehemently.
The Duchess shook her head. 'Not with you, I'm afraid.'
'I'll be a credit to him!'
The Duchess got to her feet. She looked down at Hélène. 'If you love him as much as you say you do, for God's sake, let him go!'
Hélène stared at her. 'I can't!'
The aristocratic eyes were hooded. 'Then I'm afraid you leave me no alternative. I cannot let this marriage take place.'
Hélène felt as if she was being smothered by an invisible pillow. Suddenly the luxurious bedroom took on a new personality. The poppies on the turned-down sheets looked like bloodstains and the sphinx heads on the Empire dressing table seemed to smile carnivorously. 'What. . .are you going to do?' she whispered haltingly.
'I shall have to consult our solicitors about that. But I can assure you of one thing. Nigel will not inherit a penny. Fallsworth will be forever closed to him.'
'I have enough money,' Hélène said defiantly. 'We can live on that.'
The Duchess smiled faintly. 'Yes, but can Nigel live with the fact that he has been ostracized from his own family? That the doors to every noble house in Great Britain will be closed to him?'
'You wouldn't do that!' Hélène said sharply.
'I would. And eventually this love which you now share would be soured. The marriage would not have a chance of lasting.' The Duchess laughed a thin, brittle laugh. 'Do you think my son could conceive of living off his wife?'
Hélène looked defeated. Her face was pale and her lips were trembling. 'What is it you want?'
'Leave him!' the Duchess implored. 'He belongs in the aristocracy. Leave him among his own kind!'
Hélène rose with dignity. For a moment she looked down at her hand. Then she worked the Somerset Sun off her finger. She handed it to the Duchess. 'I would not want to become a member of such an unloving family,' she said in a quivering voice. 'You are not worthy of your son. Please believe me when I say I much prefer being Hélène Junot to Hélène Somerset.' She took a deep breath and fought to retain her composure. 'If you'll be so kind as to send your chauffeur around, I'll have my bags packed within a few minutes.'
'I'll telephone the airfield to have the airplane in readiness,' the Duchess said.
This time it was Hélène who smiled thinly. 'I think I'd prefer a commercial airliner,' she said.
'As you wish.' The Duchess looked down at her feet. 'What should I tell Nigel?' she asked quietly.
Hélène looked at her, but she wouldn't meet her eyes. 'The truth, perhaps?'
The Duchess was silent.
Hélène's laugh sounded like a hysterical cry. 'I expect you would like me to write him a note and have me break off the engagement?'
'If it's not asking too much.'
'It is,' Hélène said, 'but I love Nigel too much to make him hate you for the rest of his life.' Her voice dropped to a whisper. 'I'd much prefer for him to hate me.'
9
As it had been so often in the past, Les Editions Hélène Junot continued to be a barometer of Hélène's personal life. When she looked back at the progress of the company, its growth and achievements seemed to leap
sporadically each time she suffered a personal crisis. Ironically, what was an enemy to Hélène turned out to be a friend to the company. Although she was never consciously aware of that fact until the crisis was behind her, she worked herself mercilessly during those times, building and expanding and pushing all those around her to a level of achievement that was almost superhuman. Now that she knew she could never share Nigel's name and love, she banished him completely from her life. She refused his calls and returned his letters unopened. Once he even arrived unexpectedly at the Place Vendome office, refusing to leave until he could at least see her. Warned by her secretary, Hélène slipped quietly out the back way, fleeing down the stairs to the delivery entrance. She could fight many things, she thought bitterly as she flagged a taxi, but not the loss of Nigel's birthright. If she became responsible for that, she knew that she would never be able to live with herself.
This crisis continued for six months. As time passed, Nigel's letters and calls got fewer and fewer, until they stopped coming completely. And then, just as she was starting to recover, the crisis peaked. She was leafing through a copy of Paris Match one evening when she suddenly froze. The title of the article was 'A Society Wedding.' And the color photo showed a young bride named Lady Pamela Grey leaning against the groom's shoulder. The groom was Nigel, and in the background loomed the unmistakable glorious elegance that was Fallsworth.
Hélène knew from the terrible pain she felt that she still loved Nigel. That for her the feelings they had shared were not over. Would never be. It was impossible simply to shut Nigel from her life and then expect the feelings to vanish, too.
She stared at the picture for a long time. She tried to console herself with the fact that at least now Nigel would no longer be trying to get to her. But this was a defensive reaction, and she knew it. He hadn't even tried to get in touch with her for over two months now. She had wanted Nigel to find out by himself why she had cut him off so suddenly. She had hoped he would somehow manage to straighten things out. But these wedding pictures were irrefutable proof that it was too late. That everything they had shared, everything she had hoped so desperately for, was over. She was no longer even left with hope. It was clear that she was no longer a part of Nigel's life. Lady Pamela was.
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